Group Therapy
by retrollama
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. A support group introduces John to a new chapter in his life. Mary Morstan, cats, harpoons and stuff. Fairly general.
1. Chapter 1

_I own nothing._

_I just am really impatient about Series 3, so here's my attempt to cope with that._

**Chapter 1**

John Watson didn't really hear a woman named Sandra sitting a few feet from him choke out, "It's been six months now since…since my daughter, Marcie…passed away from leukemia." His eyes were glazed over, his head propped up on his hand. He was thinking about Afghanistan.

It was something on his mind lately. He had been wondering what his life would have been like if he'd not been shot in the shoulder two years ago, had finished out his tour and come home relatively unscathed.

The woman was crying now, hard, and John came back to reality for a moment. He was probably being selfish, escaping the grief of others to examine certain vague aspects of his own life. Anyway, most people would argue that the life of a four-year-old who'd suffered from a debilitating disease for three years was more valuable than that of a thirty-something with few healthy relationships whose hobby was ruining other people's days and outing secrets.

So then an extra helping of guilt was added onto John's plate. He retreated back to his head.

Would he have met the man he spent the past year and a half of his life with? Would he have needed him in the same way he had when the met? How much time would they have had together?

"John?"

He started. "Yes?" His virtually unused voice was faint and thin. His therapist stared at him for a moment. She took long pauses whenever she said anything.

"John, I don't like to single you out," she said calmly, singling him out, "but you seem rather detached." John glanced around briefly, not moving his head from its prop. Sandra Gregory was taking slow, deep breaths with her eyes closed, but the owners of the many hands on her shoulder were clearly judging him. "I know it's your first time, but I think it'd really help for you to share your story."

He shook his head once. "I…" he lifted his head to the ceiling. "I really don't want to." She stared some more, her face grave.

"You can trust us, John."

It was time to examine the room. Faces suddenly became repulsive, so he looked for every exit by extinct. The mildewy gym was dim, with the high windows bringing in more light than the weak yellow overhead lamps. They were sitting in a circle of a dozen folding chairs in the center of the room, and there was only one heavy door at the end of the room. He'd have to hobble.

"John? I said you can trust us." He glanced at his therapist suspiciously. "We all swear to never tell your story to anyone on the outside." He laughed a bitter laugh.

"Uh-huh, see? There." He cleared his throat. "On 'the outside,' most people already know it." He frowned at every face around him. "Well, don't you all?"

He saw his therapist lean forward in the corner of his eye. Her face was much too intense for him.

"John," she said, "Why did you come here today?"

He sniffed. "Because you told me to," he replied, with utmost sarcasm. There was shifting and hissing among the other bereft survivors.

Another heap of guilt. He was making an arse of himself. He was beginning to retreat again, shrinking into his sweater, when a small voice emerged two seats to his right.

"Tell us your side of it."

Her seat was pushed back a little from the circle, so he'd overlooked her, and her back was turned slightly to him, with her knees up by her chin. She was a small woman of about 35, with very curly brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, dark olive skin, and bright, puffy eyes. She was wearing a large, green wool coat and tired khaki trousers. She wiped her nose.

"We're not idiots," she said softly, turning towards him. "We know half whatever The Sun prints is a lie. So, tell us the truth, your version of it."

When he went to his therapist's office for the first time in eighteen months, she asked him what had happened. She clearly knew what she wanted to hear—she wanted me to admit he was dead, not explain why he shouldn't be. Nobody had ever asked to hear the truth, because they had already read enough lies.

But now, suddenly, a dozen other people were murmuring encouraging words to him, and whichever arms could reach were all on his back and shoulders. Perhaps they all could imagine, at this time in their lives, having everyone else believe their respective loved ones deserved to die, or was someone less than they knew them to be.

"We want to know, John." "You can tell us, John." "It might help, John."

He nodded, trying to find the words. His hands were clasped together. He took a gasping breath to prepare himself.

"Mm—M-Moriarty wa—." But he trailed off. He couldn't say it. The images swam in his head—the false evidence of Richard Brook, the figure on the rooftop, the grave—but the truth wasn't something he'd yet translated into English. It was liquid, but just as genuine, just as painful. He covered his eyes with his hand and pressed his lips together.

His therapist's quiet, firm voice spoke again. "John, it will help you to hear yourself tell it. To have others hear it."

"No." The woman sat up and pulled her chair in to join the rest of the circle. "He can't now." She nodded at John, her red eyes understanding, respectful. "He can tell us next week." He exhaled, as did a smattering of disappointed anonymous.

"John? Will you come next week?" the therapist asked. He cleared his throat again.

"Uh, yeah. Yes, I…I suppose I must." A satisfied smile danced on the therapist's face as she glanced from John to his savior.

"Well, then, I think our hour is just about up. Same time next week, everyone?" There was a general agreement as used paper coffee cups were collected from the floor and chairs were re-folded.

John picked up his cane and straightened himself out as best he could. A portly, balding man with a sympathetic smile took his chair for him, and several pats on the back were issued from the departing. His therapist touched his arm diplomatically and suggested they meet together later that week.

He was waiting for the crowd to leave before he hobbled out onto the street when he heard a scuffling by the refreshments table. He turned and saw the woman in the green coat, smaller and thinner than he'd have guessed, wrestling with the large bag of rubbish that had accumulated over the full Saturday of support groups.

"Whoa! Can I help you with that?" He realized then that he probably owed her for coming to his rescue. He limped in her direction.

"Nah, I appreciate it, but I got this" she said, getting a good grip on it finally. She smiled, "No offense, but I don't think you'll be of much help." Her eyes gestured to his leg.

"FUCKING LEG!" he shouted, and his words echoed through the gymnasium cruelly.

She looked taken aback, and he was immediately mortified.

"Oh. My god, I am so, so, so sorry. I…it's psychosomatic, my leg is, and I…I can't control the…um, the anger." She nodded, her stunned face remaining.

"So…" she started for the door, "you're like the Hulk or something?" He chuckled—genuinely for the first time in weeks.

"Sort of. Except I'm not green."

"And you didn't smash anything."

They laughed, and it felt good for both parties.

"So, why are you taking out the trash, then?" he asked, pulling the door open for her into a hallway of classrooms. "Or…are you the janitor or something?"

"Close," she said, smiling. "I'm a teacher here, and I'm friends with the janitor, so I thought I'd do her a favor."

"What do you teach?"

"French."

"Ahh, French, I see." He pushed open the door to the street.

"Oui, c'est mon vocation." He laughed nervously as they stepped out into the rain.

"You took German, didn't you?"

"Spanish." They laughed again.

It was odd. John had been certain he would never laugh or smile again, yet here he was. Three weeks hardly leaving a dark apartment with enough of Mrs. Hudson's tea and sympathy downstairs for him to drown in, and he was laughing, years earlier than he might have expected. The stranger, at that moment, looked just as bemused with herself.

"I didn't catch your name," he said.

"Mary Fisher," she said, but she caught herself, looking down to hide her face screwing up. "No, sorry, I'm…I'm Mary Morstan."


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later, the Widow Morstan's number was still in John's coat pocket and his therapist was telling him he needed to get out of the house, and that he should get a pet.

When Mary had given it to him, it wasn't in a very romantic way. She'd only just alluded to her being a recent widow, so her tone didn't seem to convey, "Call me if you'd like to have a drink, or maybe some dinner." It more said, "People in this group sometimes need to call on each other when they need a shoulder to cry on between meetings. And, frankly, you look really, really lonely, so I could indulge you my shoulder for an afternoon, if you'd be so kind as to return the favor."

That implied intent in many ways deviated from what John was considering actually calling her for.

"Hey, Mary? Hi, there. It's…well, it's John, we met at Grievers Group Therapy the other day…yeah, that's me. Listen, are you allergic to cats by any chance?"

* * *

><p>He had been waiting outside the Mayhew Animal Home when he spotted Mary from afar. She looked like she was doing better today. Perhaps this was because she had just left class, but her eyes were less red, and her hair had been combed, and she peeked out of her thick wool scarf to smile at him, a little confused nervousness in her eyes.<p>

"Hi," she said, folding her arms. "Didn't want to adopt a cat on your own then?" He smiled weakly.

"Showing up alone would have only driven home the fact that I am a…a 33-year-old war veteran who's replacing his dead flatmate with a rescue cat." He tried to laugh as if it were a joke, in hopes she'd laugh too and they'd stand there laughing at his pain so it'd go away. She only smiled pityingly at him, and swung the door open for him.

He fought the desire to retreat into his coat collar.

* * *

><p>He wished that Mary would say more while they were there. Not only did he want the tension in the situation to ease, but because he wanted the commentary in his head to cease. They had been placed in a white, linoleum-floored room with around a dozen cats, and at least half of them were competing for his attention as if they'd thought they'd never see a human with hands and a lap again.<p>

And throughout it all, he heard _his_ voice in his head. _Chaos,_ he would sneer. _That one was abused by a drunk. Kicking, from the looks of how it carries itself around your feet. Means it probably wouldn't get in the way too much. That one was left in a box in front of the shelter door three? no. four months ago. All so affectionate, how could you stand it?_ Cats were probably as unamusing to Sherlock as humans had been, and he seemed to be channeling his disapproval into John's subconscience. John stamped the phrase "dishonouring his memory" out of his mind as best as he could.

"Any of them catching your eye?" Mary asked. She was smiling serenely, cuddling a petite ginger cat next to her face. Two others were fighting for her lap and several were figure-eighting around her legs. She was better at this than John was.

"Erm…they all make a very good argument." She giggled, and John relaxed. He tried stroking a squashy-looking tortie on the floor next to him, but as soon as he did the cat became magnetized to his hand and wouldn't let him pull it away. It jumped up into his lap and wiped its wet nose on his cheek appreciatively.

"Oooh, that one likes you!" laughed Mary.

"Yeah, and when I met you I immediately wanted to use you as a tissue." he replied, grinning sheepishly and trying to unhook the cat's claws from his trousers. He stole a glance at her.

She was chuckling, though her brow was slightly furrowed.

"I wiped mine on your coat when you weren't looking," she said. Her smile fell for a moment. "Not one for the touchy-feely ones, then?"

"Ah—no, nope, not used to feeling so physically used," he replied. "I'm rather used to being a piece of furniture in my own home, and I'd like a cat who can...relate to that."

"How about that one?" Mary jerked her chin towards a statuesque feline, leering at them perched on a scratching post in the corner.

It was white with large brown and gray splotches over its ribs and part of its face. Its pale blue eyes were half-closed in an expression that could have been either reserved bliss or bitter displeasure. It was familiar.

John shoved the tortie as gently as he could off his lap and tried his best to step over to the post without crushing any tails. The kingly cat blinked at him.

He held up his right hand politely before it's long face for it to smell. Its pink, wet nose tapped his hand once or twice before it decided it's subject worthy. John brushed his knuckles gently between the cat's ears, and it pushed into them approvingly.

John was suddenly aware that Mary was beside him. Hers were longer, more generous strokes, which the cat responded to not much more than it had to John's attempts. It was passive, but not unreceptive. It was in control of the relationship.

"I think I found him," John said, civilly scooping up the large cat and holding it in his arms. The cat looked slightly discomfited being handled, but he quickly resigned to the conveniently warm coat. Mary scratched behind its ears.

"How do you know it's male?" Mary asked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"What are you going to name him?" Mary asked. They lugged the cat carrier between the two of them, each with a grasp on the handle. The snowy cat had obliged begrudgingly to the confinement. It was reportedly male, and had been given the name "Puddles," but neither of them really acknowledged that.

John raised his eyebrows. "I dunno," he said. "Nothing too silly. Just a good, strong, human name. I was in the army."

"How about Martin?" she offered. He frowned a little.

"Mm…no, every Martin I've ever known was sort of a sod." Mary halted, pulling John back, and her expression turned positively bleak. John was already kicking himself inside.

He spoke with finalty: "Your husband's name was Martin, wasn't it?"

An apologetic smirk. "No," she said. "But I got you for a second there, didn't I?" John's brain felt like eggs were being poached in it. Was it okay to laugh?

"Sorry," she said, starting up again. "That was probably impolite of me. I couldn't resist." They turned onto Baker Street. John started breathing again. "But you must admit, why would I have suggested you name your cat after my dead husband?" Ignoring the painful watermark over the last phrase, they both choked out a laugh. "Your powers of deduction are poor, sir," she gasped. They were in front of 221B.

When John had collected himself, he sighed, scanning the drapes in his window.

"Do…" he mumbled. "Do you read my blog?" The words tasted rude in his mouth. Her eyes dropped and her smile shrank.

"My husband did," she said serenely. "He loved it. Talked about it every now and again." John pressed his lips together. "Your…friend…he seemed brilliant."

"Would you like to come up?" Mary looked a bit thrown.

"Er…sure?" she hesitated.

"Just for some tea."

"Alright, yeah, just for tea."

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hudson!" he called. "I got the cat!" No answer. They sat down the carrier, and John hobbled through the first floor quietly. She was nowhere to be seen. "Maybe she went out."<p>

"Who?"

"Our landlady," he said, lifting the cat carrier back up. "My landlady. Look, sorry if it's a bit messy. Haven't got the chance to sort anything."

"It's not a problem. You should see my place."

John swung the door open.

Mrs. Hudson was on her knees by the fireplace, weeping, her white knuckles clenched around a duster and the shards of something dirty and organic surrounding her. Her knees were bleeding a little.

"Oh, Jesus," John heard Mary whisper.

"I'm sorry, John…the skull!" Mrs. Hudson sobbed.

John dove into action, taking the woman's shoulders and bringing her gently to her feet.

"Mrs. Hudson! Are you badly hurt? Is your hip alright?" She couldn't speak much through the tears.

"John, I'll take her downstairs, you can clean this up," said Mary, guiding Mrs. Hudson carefully to the stairs.

John ran a hand through his hair, stricken. "Yeah, thank you, Mary." She tossed a kind, if not a little alarmed, smile at him.

* * *

><p>It took John ten minutes to sweep all the bone meal from the floor. He stared down at the gaunt pile of human remains in his dustpan—teeth, jaw, cartilage…<p>

Sherlock's "friend." John took a deep breath and let the old fiend slip into the bin.

He was washing the last of it off his hands when he heard Mary come in. She stepped around a shifting stack of graphic crime scene photographs.

"I sat her down in the sitting room, came back with tea and she was fast asleep." John smiled sadly. "It'll get easier, John," Mary said. "That's what they keep telling me." He exhaled.

"I just—I don't know how to put things right," he released. She slumped in the kitchen doorframe.

"I know the feeling," she whispered.

They stood there a moment, peering blandly around the flat. Sherlock's remaining possessions were silent, growing dusty.

Then Mary stood up straight. John followed her into the living room. She knelt on the floor, peering into the cage door of the cat carrier. She tapped it twice, shook it a little.

"Your cat seems to be dead to the world," she said. John knelt beside her and saw for himself. The cat was curled elegantly at the end of the carrier, giving no indication it intended to move into its new home just yet. John's sigh ended with a short laugh; he shook his head.

"John, what were you planning on having for dinner?" Mary asked, still looking in on the slumbering new resident.

"I hadn't really thought of it yet." John didn't think about food much anymore.

"Because I keep making too much food for just me and I have a surplus of leek soup. This guy doesn't seem to be going anywhere."

John felt guilty for a moment about leaving Mrs. Hudson alone again.

"You'll be back before either of them gets up, I promise," Mary assured him. Seeing in her eyes that she wanted him around, even if it was just because he was another human, helped considerably.

"Yeah, alright."

"And you should clean this place. Having all this…stuff isn't helpful," she said, leaving the cat carrier door open and getting to her feet. "You'll see what a hypocrite I am when we get to my place, of course." She glanced around again. "Maybe we can help clean out each other's flats." John grinned, slowly, at the floor.

"I'd like that."

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes slipped back into the silent sitting room. After sitting in the corner with large Scotland Yard files, tabloid clippings, and bottomless tea all that Monday afternoon, relieving himself had come as an immense comfort. He wasn't too concerned about leaving his work sitting neatly on his chair, since the room was under twenty-four-seven surveillance, completely empty, and anyway most of the Diogenes members knew better than to mess with other members' affairs. Part of the deal was you respected your fellow world leaders—such a rare courtesy nowadays.<p>

So, as Mycroft strolled back to his seat, he was stopped dead in his tracks. The back of his chair was pointed away from the sun setting in the windowsill, but he could just make out one of his tabloids open on the lap of someone who had been keeping his seat warm for him.

In any other room, he'd have proclaimed a civil, though just as outraged, version of, "What the fuck are you doing in my chair?" But of course, he had to amble around the overstuffed armchair. A long-fingered hand came down and flipped a page, then went back up to the owner's jaw.

Sherlock Holmes looked up at his gaping brother.

His look said, "Yes, I'm real. Please close your mouth, you look like an idiot."

* * *

><p><em>Hope you're all enjoying this! Please review!<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"So, the skull?" Mary asked as they ascended the stairs of the housing estate balcony. John coughed.

"It was Sherlock's," he said. They reached the top of the flight, and John saw Mary's expression in the corner of his eye. It was horrified. "Oh, no, god!" he exclaimed. She shot him a look. "It wasn't, like…_his_ his! It was more of a bizarre Hamlet brain-fetish." She put her key into her door lock.

"That doesn't exactly comfort me," she said. The door swung open and she flung her school bag in. "Then again," the light flicked on, "who am I to judge?"

The yellow light splashed onto a cluttered room with orange floral wallpaper and burgundy carpet. There wasn't a space of wall without a stack of papers and files at the foot of it, or a box of some bottles of paint, or some permabound French books.

A dozen or so dolls sat on a dusty mantelpiece, greeting them with coy glass eyes.

"I'm not sure if I mentioned it, but I make dolls," Mary said casually, pulling off her shoes and flinging them into the bedroom. John tripped closer to the mantel as Mary padded into the kitchen.

They had heads expertly molded of polymer clay, and each of them appeared artfully bloated or deformed, their dimpled, potato-like heads hand painted with rosy cheeks and small features. Each looked serene, even glad, despite their horror-film aesthetic, and they ranged in size from a half a foot to a full one. Their bloodless limbs, some deathly pale, some darker, were spindly and delicate, and their hair was either brightly dyed wool in bulbous styles on their heads, or thin, sparse human hair. Their clothes were hand sewn, hand knit.

"You made all of these?" John called. Mary was flicking through songs on a stereo, passing by numerous depressing beginnings to find one that was marginally more appropriate for a friendly leftover dinner.

"Yeah, it's just something I do in my free time," she said, pulling the lid off a Tupperware container. "Which has been considerably more plentiful lately. I've been on a roll." A few beeps on the microwave.

"And how long have you been doing this?"

"Oh, gosh, I started around the time Kieran and I started dating, so probably…five years?" she said. "I mean, I've always sewn, and I've made cloth dolls since I was a kid, but that was when I started getting serious about it, and using the clay and whatnot." The clatter of dishes. "I sell them on the internet. They're pretty expensive to make, but some collectors will pay all sorts of money for a good one. They were going to pay for Kieran and I to go to Iceland on holiday. Would you like a beer?"

"Yeah, sure, thank you." He tottered into the kitchen and took the can she held out for him. "Kieran was…?"

"My husband." The microwave rang out, and Mary pulled out a large dish of steaming soup. She ladled the lumpy mixture into two bowls, and grinned. "Look at me. Slaving away to feed you. A proper domestic goddess." He chuckled, sitting down at a card table with place settings.

"Don't overwork yourself on my behalf." She slapped a bowl of the soup in front of him. A pat of butter floated, melting, on the surface of it, and Mary tore him off a piece of bread.

"_Potage parmentier!_" she announced, sitting down across from him.

"Yes, _bon appetit!_" he muttered politely, stirring the mixture.

"No, that's the name of the soup, John. It's French," she said, smiling and taking her first bite. He chuckled and blushed. John Watson was blushing.

"I used to eat this all the time during my exchange," she said. "I studied in Paris for a semester during college. My boyfriend there used to make this for me all the time. It's so easy, just potatoes, leeks, water, salt, stewed together and served with butter. It's perfection in a bowl."

The mush had looked questionable, but John remembered what he was used to finding in his own refrigerator, and discovered shortly that leek soup was his new favorite. Mary curled her legs up and sat cross-legged on her folding chair. She hummed along to the music as she ate. Her eyes were still so sad to look at, but her lips curled into a small, contented smile for most of the evening, and she talked more than he'd have expected her to

* * *

><p>Mary pulled out a pint of ice cream when they finished their soup, not bothering with more bowls, just two spoons.<p>

Kieran Fisher had been a concierge at Hotel Russell. He had always wanted to go to school to be a veterinarian, but that dream had slipped away from him. He and Mary had met when Kieran went to see his niece in a production of _The Importance of Being Earnest,_ which Mary had directed. They both liked_ Harold & Maude_, long bike rides through Hyde Park, the Talking Heads, and antique shops. They were both the shy ones at parties, and they didn't like being the center of attention, unless the situation absolutely called for it. They made a ritual of buying a new set of novelty bed sheets every season, the last one being a vintage flannel set covered in repeated images of the Virgin Mary weeping. Kieran had gotten Mary a Gustav Klimt print every anniversary they'd had so far. He'd proposed to her over the phone when she was having a particularly bad day and he was working an unexpected night shift.

They'd been married for little over a year when Kieran, a chain smoker since he was a teenager, was diagnosed with lung cancer. The battle had lasted seven months. He lost all his hair, and his spirit slowly left with it. His death was well prepared-for, clean, and dignified, in a hospital bed nine weeks previously.

It seemed like Mary's eyes had been too dried out from explaining this so many times to cry about anything, but she seemed to appreciate John's listening to her recite the facts in a dry, distant voice. John was thankful for this, because it would have been awful if she'd expected him to say anything in response. He didn't have any words. All he could do was laugh when she reminisced something funny about her husband, and frown empathetically when she spoke of holding his hand as the life went out of him. When she had nothing else to say, there were a few moments silence, and he slid his hand toward hers on the card table so their fingernails touched. That seemed to be enough.

* * *

><p>She suggested he call her in the morning so that she could make sure he got home all right (he'd had more than one beer), and to let her know how the cat was adjusting.<p>

Mrs. Hudson was still in her easy chair, fast asleep, when he got back to 221B, so he switched off the television, draped a crocheted afghan over her and poured her cold tea down the drain.

Upstairs, he knelt down slowly to see if the cat was still in its carrier, but it had moved. He fought the urge to panic a little—he'd panicked reasonably over much worse in his life and he was not going to panic over a rogue cat. He checked the kitchen, in all the open cupboards, and between the stacks of Scotland Yard contraband in the sitting room. He checked under Sherlock's bed and in his closet, and in the bathroom, in the toilet. Just as he was about to ascend the stairs to his own bedroom, he saw at the base of the staircase a tiny splash of blood.

Deep breath. How bad could it be?

He went up the stairs and stepped into his bedroom. The cat was contorted at the very center of his bed, licking its own privates and looking up briefly to shoot John a severe expression. On the blanket just next to him was what remained of a mouse—apparently just a head and a small length of spine, surrounded by dots of now dried blood.

"I'll call you Martin," John said.

He turned and went downstairs to sleep in Sherlock's bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"In the majority of the western world," Mycroft preached, not taking his eyes off his newspaper, "it is customary to say 'good morning,' at the breakfast table."

"As I would, Mycroft, but it's not morning anymore," Sherlock grumbled, slumping down in the chair opposite his brother at the long dining table. He squinted at the vivid garden just outside the window and the bright white light spilling in. A silver tray of tea, coffee, toast, and assorted jams was placed in front of him. He shoved up the sleeves of the overlarge ivory satin pyjamas Mycroft had loaned him and went about buttering toast. He felt positively ridiculous.

"You should change your appearance," Mycroft said, sipping his tea.

"And how many times have I heard that before?"

"Your look is distinctive."

"I left my deerstalker at the flat and intend to leave it there."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft set down his newspaper. "I need you to be serious for a moment. If you ever plan on leaving the house in foreseeable future, I must insist you at least change your hair." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your…_beachy mop_ is practically trademark."

"Beachy mop?" Sherlock scoffed. "Has my infamy taken me all the way to the pages of _GQ_?"

"There's an electric razor in your bathroom. I suggest you get it over with," Mycroft said, picking his paper back up and ignoring his brother.

"You want them to be able to see my face better?"

"You of all people should know that the best hiding place is in plain sight." Sherlock bit into his toast viciously.

"Why are you so intent on reintegrating me?" Mycroft sighed.

"You said yourself, Moriarty was at the center of an international web of criminals. I'm currently pulling out all the stops to uncover links in that web. Until then, you'll have to lie low for now. I'm working on relocating you, partly to throw any of the likely backlash off the trail, and partly because, let's admit it, neither of us can coexist under the same roof for very long." Sherlock smiled.

"Big brother, always looking out for the younger." He tipped two sugars into his coffee. "Would have been nice if you could have tried that before I had to jump off a five-storey building."

Mycroft was about to slam his teacup into its saucer, but he caught himself.

"You know," he drawled. "John's made a friend."

"Oh, really, was that in the sports or the entertainment section, Mycroft?"

"She's a recent widow. More than a friend, if you ask me." Silence. Sherlock sipped his coffee.

"Good, that's what I would hope for him. He should…move on. As quickly as possible."

"And he has adopted a cat." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Such funny coping mechanisms some people employ."

"Tell me, just how close surveillance are you keeping on my flatmate?" Sherlock watched Mycroft's eyebrows rise into his forehead from over the newspaper. "_Former_ flatmate."

Mycroft folded his paper again, tucked it under his arm, stood up, and finished his tea.

"Shave your head. Leave the stubble, though. I'll have some glasses picked up for you, and some clothes. You'll be unrecognizable." Sherlock shoved the rest of his toast into his mouth.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's townhouse was much too clean.<p>

Which was what made it so impossibly dull. His servants kept every room in the house free of incriminating blemishes, so the whole place was like a small, well-lit 5-star hotel with a private art collection that could pay for the Titanic to be restored. Even the street below was pristine and unburdened with interesting pedestrians to pick apart before they turned the corner. Sherlock hadn't been there twenty-four hours and already his brain was boiling. It needed to stretch its metaphorical legs and _run_, but there was nowhere to go.

Moriarty had killed him. Looking back on it, it might not have made much of a difference if he hadn't taken Molly Hooper up on her offer…

As if Mycroft hadn't been giving enough hints he wanted Sherlock to hide out elsewhere, he'd had complimentary-sized soaps left out for him. The place couldn't have felt more like a hotel. Sherlock stepped into the hot shower. He didn't know why he made the effort of washing his hair, since it would be in the trash shortly. The soap stripped Sherlock's skin of an extra layer he was not used to moving around without, and made him smell overwhelmingly like pine needles, which he despised.

He stepped out, secured the towel around his waist, and took one last long look at the Sherlock Holmes in the mirror.

He turned on the razor, and dragged it from his hairline back. He peeled away the chance of immediate recognition, one section of his scalp at a time. It left his head feeling cold, and, considering he's not supposed to shave his face, almost all his head was then covered in short, prickly stubble. He felt odd. His head felt too light, and the bags under his eyes from lack of sleep were then his most prominent features.

He wondered for a moment if he could now pass John Watson on the street unrecognized. Of course not. John knew Sherlock too well. He would see his facial structure, his eyes, his height, his gait. He would stop him there in the street and make a scene. He'd try to punch him. The very thought of it made Sherlock's cheekbones ache.

He would probably also cry.

* * *

><p>When he walked from the bathroom back into the guest room, there was a selection of eye- and sunglasses laid out neatly on the bed for him, next to a perfect stack of clothing. He stared at them contemptuously for a moment, and dressed himself.<p>

Just as he was pulling on the jacket left out for him and examining his new image in the full mirror, Mycroft knocked twice and swung the door open.

He had his coat on and was putting on his gloves. He was going out for an early dinner with some ambassador, most likely.

"Well?" he said. "Who are you?" Sherlock twisted a knot out of his neck and scanned the wire-rimmed glasses, skull cap, white t-shirt, pilling argyle sweater vest, football team jacket, shapeless blue jeans, sneakers, all well worn out by others before him to make it seem like he'd been this fictitious person all along.

"I'm a recently unemployed tax consultant who enjoys fixing motorbikes in his spare time." He turned to the side a little; his eyes narrowed. "Ambidextrous, that's convenient."

"I was thorough."

"I have a sister, and a niece around the age of five. I take her out to the cinema on weekends. I'm a fan of Manchester United. I'm having trouble with rent, which is why my clothes are loose—cutting back on food—and why my hair is buzzed—can't afford a haircut. No significant other. Rowed crew when I was younger. Also, I was most likely fired for too many unexcused absences, though it's possible it was for downsizing, I haven't decided yet."

"Anything else?"

"I'm allergic to cats." Mycroft smirked at him.

"I'm glad you're getting into character," he said. "I'll be back late. I'd tell you to stay in the house but I think we both know that's a useless request." He turned to leave. "Please just be careful."

Sherlock pretended not to hear. He never knew how to respond to his brother caring for him.

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><p>Please review!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

John's morning was spent setting up a litter box, praying that Martin would use the litter box (John had already cleaned up the alternative), putting out kibble for the animal, and trying to figure out how to get mouse blood stains out of his duvet. Martin's morning was spent sleeping in a patch of sun, and occasionally getting up to peer out the window, or to sniff John's knee.

* * *

><p>When he'd called, Mary informed John that there had been a convenient fire in the cafeteria kitchen of her high school, so she'd gotten off early.<p>

"Not too many people were hurt," she said over her mobile, in a coldly casual voice that John found much too familiar. "But one of the lunch ladies got massive burn down the side of her face. I'm talking boils and everything. I haven't done dolls with burns yet; I'm thinking I have to give it a try." John paused, listening to her pant lightly as she walked down a street. He smiled to himself, peering down at his bare feet, sitting in the armchair across from the empty black one. Every surface in the flat was covered in contraband files disclosing gory deaths and cleverly executed bloodlust, except for the black leather chair.

He cleared his throat.

"You like horror, do you?" he said.

"Yeah, it's an odd obsession. Mostly I like it for my dolls. I like to make them look like something horrible has happened to them—they've been scarred or mutilated— but I then I usually leave their faces…_peaceful_. It's comforting somehow."

"Hm. I remember you said we should help out with clearing out each other's flats. My…flat mate has—well, he's left behind loads of…really quite disturbing photos of crime scenes. You could pop over if you like."

"To help clean your flat and look at injuries?"

"Yeah," he said, an odd note of apology to his voice. "I mean, you don't have to help clean if you—,"

"No, no! I'd be happy to if you'll help with mine later. I'll head over right now."

She hung up, and John immediately shuffled to change out of his jimjams, which he'd been wearing much too long.

* * *

><p>She came by around eleven and after properly meeting Mrs. Hudson and accepting a mug of tea, made herself comfortable on the carpet in front of the fireplace, sorting huge stacks of files into either trash or Scotland Yard categories. Occasionally she would gasp quietly, then pick up her notebook and sketch something, or jot something down. John wasn't sure if he should feel nervous or glad.<p>

"So you accompanied him to crime scenes, then?" Mary asked, as John was busy filling a trash bag with rotting fruit and human remains from the refrigerator.

"Ah, yep. That was the jist of it."

"Why?"

"Well, he would usually make the excuse that I helped him with medical stuff, but he mostly one-upped me in that department. No, I served the purpose of blogger and interpreter." She looked up from one of the files.

"Interpreter?"

"Yeah. Sherlock wasn't very good with people skills. I did a lot of apologizing for him." Mary chuckled.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"What, apologizing for my flat mate's bluntness?"

"No, running after him to crime scenes all the time." John needed a moment to figure out how to answer that.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I—," he sighed. "I came home from Afghanistan almost two years ago. I wasn't the same, and I needed some sort of…_action_ in my life." Mary was silent a moment, which made John wish he were wearing a scarf or a sweater or something to bury his face into, instead of the t-shirt he'd thrown on.

"I guess I admire you there," she said.

"Really?"

"Yeah, well…I've never been one much for action and adventure and excitement. I can't ride rollercoasters and I avoid sports at all costs. Car chases in movies make me ill. Me, I prefer a quiet life. So did Kieran." He went on his tiptoes for a split second to see her face. It had gone stony again.

* * *

><p>John moved onto Sherlock's closet later in the afternoon. He had been wondering if Sherlock would have wanted anything to go to Mycroft—things of sentimental value (despite how Sherlock used "sentiment" as a curse word)—and he realized in Sherlock's case nothing like that would be left out in the sitting room. They would be hidden, out of sight, buried where they couldn't clog his brain.<p>

Sherlock's closet was mostly reserved for his impressive collection of disguises. Most of them were authoritative—pilot, fireman, security guard—glamours that could get him into most places unnoticed and unquestioned. However, there were also a few store clerk uniforms, a number of suits of varying quality and cloth, a large sum of which John had never seen, and a drawer full of diverse t-shirts Sherlock wouldn't have been caught dead in as himself.

More interesting things turned up as John delved deeper into the closet, most of which he laid out on the unmade bed, not certain where things were supposed to go quite yet.

He found a notable quantity of weapons—knives scattered willy-nilly with their blades unprotected, a couple guns, ammo, a fantastic traditionally carved bow, and a heavy metal chain that didn't seem to have any other purpose than to hurt someone. There was a pillowcase of foreign money—a jumble of large bills rubber banded together by country. There were stray test tubes with rusting or molding solutions caked to one side of their flutes, and little slips of paper Sherlock had pulled from old forensics and psychology textbooks or scrawled things on like, "epileptic Filipino not marksman," or, "blackmail: 'I don't want to be in politics long' –MH, 1996," or, "assignment: read pgs. 1647-89/make point of not reading."

John had cleared out the majority of the closet when his fingers brushed a dusty plastic Tupperware in the darkest corner of the closet, shoved behind the chest of drawers. He pulled it out from the shadows and held it up to the light from the window behind him. In it, there were little plastic sandwich bags. A few were twisted tightly around pills, but there was one with a very small spoonful of white dust. John choked on his own gasp. He was holding evidence of a different version of Sherlock Holmes. A version he'd never known, and frankly, had never wanted to know. He felt his face screw up, and he snapped the lid back on the box and shoved it back where he'd found it, not really knowing why he didn't want to dispose of it. Perhaps it was because it represented an era of Sherlock's life that he wouldn't allow to be erased. Sherlock lived, and he had bad times, he had worse times, and he had times when there were aspects of his life he could stand without chemical influence. John hoped he might find more evidence of the latter.

He sniffed and turned to the other side of the closet, where there was a brief stack of shoeboxes. The majority held Sherlock's shoes—expensive, dark leather shoes with the soles rough and worn down—but the one at the very bottom, an especially old, unmarked wide box with some water damage on one side, was full of unsorted, curling photographs. The first John pulled out he held up to the light. The sunny image was in front of a black iron gate, and it was of a round-faced, sullen-looking teenager with a bright red bowl cut in a prim school uniform squinting cheerlessly at the lens, with a dark, curly-haired child, probably around the age of five or six, leaning on his brother's pink leg and glaring inquisitively at something beyond the camera. The expression was familiar to John—he'd seen it on countless occasions.

John dropped the picture, and felt his face become hot. _Why don't I know more about him?_ He pursed his lips, trying to hold it back, but the tears came fast. He took deep, solid breaths, and pushed on his eyes with the heels of his palms, but it didn't do anything. Waves of ache and shame washed over him, and it wasn't long before he was full-on sobbing, doing his best to keep silent but not succeeding very well. He buckled over his folded knees and leaned his head into the closet. The top of his head brushed something precarious.

Suddenly a hard blow was sent onto his bad shoulder, and then it rolled down his back and clattered behind him. He had yelped from the shock of it, fearing someone had walked in behind him and tried to attack him. He heard Mary stir in the other room, calling his name and asking if he was all right. He wiped his face on his sweater futilely before she came into the bedroom.

"Is that a harpoon?" she inquired. John snapped the lid back on the shoebox and shoved it under the bed. He suspected she'd seen his ruddy face and red eyes, but was politely choosing not to notice.

"What? Oh, yeah," he twisted around all the way then hoisted himself up. "I think it fell on me. Gave me a fright," he said, picking up the bamboo weapon, which still had dried blood on it.

"Whose blood is that?" Mary asked, her expression falling somewhere between appalled and intrigued.

"No one who'd miss it, trust me." She didn't look comforted.

"So he just tossed a bloody harpoon into his closet. Couldn't be bothered?"

"Yes, ma'am. Seems entirely in character."

She straightened up, and tilted her head to the side.

"You weren't using it for anything, were you?"

"Me? No, no, this was just how Sherlock chose to spend a Thursday afternoon. I have no use for it," John explained, easing himself onto the edge of the bed, holding the harpoon like a walking stick.

"What will you do with it, then?"

"Dunno, what do ordinary Londoners do with their harpoons?"

"I can't say I'd like to know," she giggled, sitting down warily next to him. "But if you want to get rid of it, my brother's a fisherman, and he's going to be in town in a few days." John made a face. Their eyes met, and they both snorted with laughter.

"He wants to go old school, then?"

"Eh, it might be a laugh," she shrugged.

"Wait, are you serious?"

"Yeah!" she insisted. "It sounds like a proper joke, I know, but I'd at least like to see his reaction. He'll think I'm this widow who's just completely gone off the deep end." John smiled weakly and scanned the bloodstained weapon, shaking his head in disbelief. "I might as well be," she added

"Sure," he said, "if you can get it to your place without being stopped."

"Don't worry, tiny lady like me, they'll probably think it's a prop for a play or something," she reassured him. "We should probably clean the blood off though."

* * *

><p>It was only a short walk from 221B Baker Street to the nearest tube station. Mary held her head up high and did her best to appear as though she was simply walking home from work: coat, bag, harpoon, and all. She looked no one in the eye, but she could see that they were giving her a wide berth. A few mothers with children crossed the street to avoid her.<p>

"Excuse me! Madam!" someone called behind her. She turned. A tall policeman, with the bright yellow jacket, bowler cap, buzz cut, wire-rimmed glasses, was striding toward her. "May I ask where you found that?"

"What, the harpoon?"

"Yes, the harpoon, you must have got it somewhere." He stood over her imposingly and laced his hand behind his back. His eyes scrutinized her face.

"Er—a friend of mine found it in his apartment and he said I could have it."

"Hm. Why would your boyfriend give you a harpoon?" He was speaking quickly now, clearly exhilarated.

"When did I say he was my boyfriend?"

"Who is he? What's his name?" She knitted her brow at him. He'd crossed the border into harassment.

"My friend's name is Dr. John Watson, if you must know, and I am Mary Morstan. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to catch the tube and go home." A satisfied smile played on the policeman's mouth, and he surveyed her person for a moment.

"High school teacher, based on the white board ink and graphite on the side of your hand," he mumbled, more to himself than to her. "French class, most likely, considering the choice of dress and the way you hold your mouth when you speak. But you work with your hands in your spare time. Sculpting, since the hands are so dry, but the fingertips are all shredded. Diabetic? No, there's no scabbing—the needle only goes skin deep. So you probably sew. Sculpting and sewing means you most likely make dolls. Not a common hobby, but he is a sucker for the eccentric. Recently widowed, ring's been removed in the past four days. Married for less than five years, I should th—" He finally looked up and saw her eyes.

They were wet and disconcerted, but they turned hostile within seconds.

"It's you," she whispered, shaking her head. "That's not possible."

"You can't tell him," Sherlock said, a hint of desperation coloring the demand.

"Do you even know—," she began, but she stopped to collect herself.

"I should tell you, Mary, this hasn't been easy on me either."

"Oh really? Well, that's good to know, Mr. Holmes." She spun on her heel and began rushing for the tube.

He jogged up behind her. She felt him gently grasp the harpoon and take it from her, and she slowed to a halt, not able to look at him again. "I'd like this back," he said. "Trust me, you don't want to take it on the tube."

In the corner of her eye she saw a shiny black car glide up beside them. He opened the door and started to get in.

"Please," he said, just barely loud enough for her to hear, "just make sure he's all right."

He swung the harpoon into the car, slammed the door shut, and disappeared.

* * *

><p><em>Cemetery, 30 minutes.<em>

John grimaced at the text message. Who the hell would text him that? And how did they get his number?

_Who is this?_ he typed back.

Friend of a friend, the stranger replied. John, sitting on the couch next to Martin (who was investigating a ray of light on the wall, reflected off the knife on the mantelpiece) felt like his lungs had switched places.

_Why?_ he wrote.

_Take a chance, John Watson._

Without much further deliberation, John rose from the couch, walked to the hook by the door, slipped on his coat, and left his cane on the carpet.

He didn't really think much about where in the cemetery he needed to go. He paid the cabby and walked smoothly in a beeline for the only grave he'd ever visited there.

As he walked, he shoved his fists down in his pockets and watched his feet. His heart was pounding, but he figured no one would have guessed it looking at him. Since the fall, John had felt more like a stereotypical veteran than ever—old, crotchety, haunted. Above all, he was bored. It would have been more mature to say depressed, which he probably was also, but just the other night, as he lay in bed, swallowed in the silence and tracing his own silhouette on the wall with his eyes, he felt his left hand twitch. Sherlock's actual presence and company weren't the only things he missed. Sherlock came with an attached package of danger and recklessness, and John had been, himself, an addict to that.

He knew the path to that shiny new grave marker fairly well. He couldn't find it blindfolded yet, but he knew it was close. When he finally looked up, he saw the tree that made a canopy over it, not five yards away. The tombstone was obscured by a figure.

Tall, thin, dark suit, pale skin, messy brown hair.

Piercing eyes.

Impossible.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the weeklong wait. Please review!<em>


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Impossible," he mouthed. She wiped tears from her cheeks and lips.

"I know," Irene Adler said, turning to face him like she figured she'd see him. "I couldn't believe it. That he would...that he was gone."

John suddenly wished he had his cane since the earth no longer seemed a supportive substance. The former dominatrix turned back to the grave, and John floated somehow to the tree. He leaned against it and verified her face.

Her hair was a lighter color in front now, and it had been cut shoulder-length, with long bangs that partially obscured her eyes. Her skin had much less make-up than before—oddly throwing off her identity to some degree. Her skin, looking closer, was more tanned, and she had put on weight—both muscle and curve. There were more lines in her face.

She took a dreg from her cigarette. Her tired tweed suit hung on her loosely, and she had paired it with a grubby t-shirt, muddy sneakers, and a red backpack. No one would have guessed The Woman, who was believed internationally to be dead five months now, had hopped a plane to Heathrow, and she apparently made it out just fine.

"I came to pay my respects," she said gently, stretching out her arm to tap the ash far from the patch of grass she was observing.

"You should be dead," John stated calmly.

"And who informed you of my death, Dr. Watson?" she inquired, her crisp voice blended with notes of a northern American accent.

"The British government itself," he replied shortly. "Mycroft." She chuckled, and nodded. "He said he'd been thorough this time. But..." Miss Adler turned her head, swept her fringe from her wet eyes, and smiled at him-not a leer, but a genuine, warm smile. He'd seen it used on Sherlock once or twice, and couldn't help but half-return it. "But he did say it'd take Sherlock Holmes to fool him."

She laughed, shaking her head.

"I guess it did," she said. She stepped forward a little, and let her long, unmanicured fingertips brush the top of the tombstone. She looked past it, no where in particular. "I don't quite feel like going into details, Watson, but let's just say, Sherlock Holmes _almost_ got even with me. He let me live, though he couldn't give me back everything I worked for in my life. I had to start over again."

John almost asked her where she had been, but he remembered Adler wasn't supposed to deserve his sympathy. He cleared his throat.

"So, you texted me to come here?"

"What?" He pulled out his mobile.

"I got your text. _Cemetery, half-hour._ What was that all about?" Her eyes widened, fixed on the phone.

"Let me see the number," she demanded. John held the phone up in front of her face, and she gripped it to steady it. "You have never received anything from this number before?"

"Never." Her lips tightened, and she released his hand.

"I've been recognized," she whispered. "Not by the government. Someone else. Hopefully an amateur." She strode past him, making for the street. "Since you've already been pulled into this, I might as well crash at your place," she decided. John ran to catch up with her.

"Ah! No! No way! You can't do that." He felt ridiculous, practically having to jog to keep up with her quick, long gait.

"I realize it's not convenient, but it's better than a hotel. You're the only one I can trust in London."

"Who says you can trust me?"

"You tell me. I said can, not should." They reached the sidewalk. She crushed her cigarette butt into the pavement with her foot. "Besides," she added, gazing down at his face with the same expression she'd had staring at the grave, "you took the risk of coming to the cemetery when a total stranger beckoned. I should think the risk of harboring a fugitive dominatrix in your flat would intrigue you, Watson." She hailed a cab.

"I," John seethed, "do not owe you anything." She looked down at him again.

"I know," Adler said. "I made a mistake. I led Jim Moriarty closer to Sherlock Holmes. I am responsible." A cab spotted them and rolled up to the pavement. "Please, give me the chance to put things right." John pushed past her and took the cab for himself.

"You can't bring him back, Miss Adler."

"Give me a chance. You must believe in miracles after today, Watson. I'm here." He shook his head, smiling mirthlessly. She caught the door with a svelte arm before it slammed shut. "I can exact revenge in ways you'll never be able to, John Watson. That's what I have to offer you. Also, Sherlock's bedroom window is shamefully easy to climb through." She released the door, and it came slamming in John's face.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's people saw Sherlock returning to the townhouse as soon as he turned the corner, and a butler held the door open for him as he slumped in, dragging his harpoon behind him a little. The butler picked up the scraping end.<p>

"You shouldn't have done that," Mycroft chided as Sherlock joined him in the sitting room.

"In much of Western society, people say _hello, _Mycroft," Sherlock said, falling face first into a posh fainting sofa. The butler was left holding the weapon alone, looking slightly perplexed.

"Would you like this in your room, sir?"

"That will do for now, Smythe, thank you," Mycroft said, uncrossing and recrossing his legs in his armchair. The butler exited, the harpoon in tow.

"When you came to me you said John must not ever know you're still alive."

"So glad you were listening."

"I was indeed, so why are you telling the widow Morstan his grief is unfounded?" Mycroft was raising his voice. "If you want John to know, we can arrange that. If not, _leave him alone. _Make up your mind!_"_

"She had my _harpoon_!"

"You could've gotten another one!"

"Eh-sir?" The butler again.

_"What?"_

"My apologies, sir, but you've received an envelope."

"You've x-rayed it, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. It is clean." The butler brandished a silver tray before Mycroft and lifted a domed lid. The Manila envelope was thin and wrinkled. Sherlock scanned the creases—the deliverer had clenched it unceremoniously before sending it. Nervous wreck, perhaps, but there was no sweat. Wore gloves. Smart nervous wreck. Or worse, smart and exhilarated.

Mycroft glanced up at his brother a moment.

"And how," he began, addressing the butler, "did we come into possession of this?"

"It was personally delivered to the post box, sir, but the CCTV cameras show no evidence of a deliverer. None of the post dropped off by the postman today was this size, sir."

Sherlock's stagnant left-brain was overjoyed. _This person had managed to doctor the CCTV cams. _Mycroft's expression implied he could not relate to Sherlock's excitement. He took the envelope.

"Leave us, Smythe."

When the Holmes brothers were alone, Mycroft slipped out a gleaming letter opener and ripped the folder open.

It contained only a single sheet of copier paper. Mycroft stared at it, brow furrowed at what it disclosed. He let out a sigh after a minute and handed it to his brother, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock took the sheet in his long fingers. This page had been handled with gloves too, and it was even more haggard than the envelope.

It was a scan. The person had scanned his iPhone three times, cut out the three resulting grainy images and taped them next to each other for a final scan. Sherlock had to hold the paper close to his face to be sure, but the first iPhone had been zoomed onto the face of a woman leaving Heathrow. She was partially in profile, and was only visible above the waist, but her height compared to the doorframe and the bone structure of her face didn't lie.

_"The Woman,"_ Sherlock breathed.

The next iPhone showed Adler again. She was smoking a cigarette under a tree—slightly blurred, and a little too dark, but not unrecognizable now that Sherlock had paired her with her new appearance. Beside her was a form Sherlock would recognize anywhere.

"She came to see John?"

"I think it's more likely they just bumped into each other," Mycroft drawled, "at your grave."

"Why would she fly for eight hours and risk being recognized just to see a grave?"

"Oh, I don't know Sherlock, why would she use your name as a password on her _lifeline_?" Mycroft snapped. "More importantly, how did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Fake her death?" Sherlock made an annoyed hiss and waved him off.

The third iPhone showed a series of text messages to a contact labeled "Pet."

_Cemetery, 30 minutes._

_Who is this?_

_A friend of a friend._

_Why?_

_Take a chance, John Watson._

No reply. Clearly, John had gone. Stupid. The sender had been a puppeteer. He'd wanted John to see Adler, back from the dead, for some reason.

In the space below for editing texts, there was an unsent message.

_hes cute isnt he sherlock dont worry ill take good care of your johny boy 333_

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading.<em>


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

It goes without saying that the first thing John had done when he got home was shut and lock the window in Sherlock's room. However, part of him felt like the glass of the window was only a principle at this point: he didn't want Adler in his home. He was thankful Mrs. Hudson was at ballroom dancing tonight.

He made himself a rather pathetic-looking plate of beans-on-toast, drank his milk, sent an businesslike email to his sister, and finally settled into his armchair for the evening with a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and the shoebox of his late flatmate's childhood.

He'd hardly made it past two photographs—both depicting a middle-aged, red-haired man in a crisp orange suit with the brothers Holmes, all arranged in cheerless, militaristic poses in front of a rather sinister-looking Christmas tree—when he heard a crash in Sherlock's room. He sighed and poured some drink into the empty glass. Martin leapt off the sofa and went padding after the noise, already defending his new territory.

A few moments later, Irene Adler was washing the blood and glass shards off her hands in the kitchen sink and looking for a dustpan and duster.

"It's on the mantelpiece," said John, not yet bothering to look up.

"Aha, so it is," the woman murmured.

When Adler had pushed all the broken glass into the trash, wrapped her hands in toilet paper, and claimed the pan of cooling beans for herself, she came and sat across from John. She spooned some beans into her mouth, and took off her jacket.

"Thank you," she said, swallowing, and her smile was ruthlessly apologetic.

"Just make sure my window doesn't stay that way forever. London is cold."

"Mm, consider it done, darling." She wiped her mouth delicately, and stood up to lean over him so she could reach the glass of whiskey. She lingered there a moment too long. "Do let me know if there's anything else I can do to make my stay less burdensome." John heard the note of suggestion loud and clear, and quickly changed the subject.

"How long do you plan on staying?" he choked. She beamed at him playfully, settling back down into the chair.

"Fish and visitors smell after three days, Dr. Watson, so no later than Monday." She took a small sip. "I've not brought a phone, so I couldn't have been tracked _too_ closely. And I'll try to stay out of your way, of course, considering you have a woman in your life now." John followed her gaze to the empty mug of tea in front of the fireplace, on which there were traces of lipstick that wasn't Mrs. Hudson's. He nodded.

"You're good," he allowed, though he'd seen better.

"You know, widowers are much quicker to move on to the next partner than widows are," Adler mused, leaning back in Sherlock's chair a little. Martin had come and laid out luxuriously over her stocking feet, his expression vacant.

"Funny you should say that, considering Mary is a widow," John remarked, not liking where the conversation seemed to be going.

"What a coincidence; I assume her grieving period has been longer than yours. Anyway, I was talking about you." John chuckled and took a sip.

"Oh, that's right, you think we were a couple."

"I know you were. And, hadn't things taken a turn for the worse, you two might have even figured things out. You were in it for life. I saw how you were around each other."

"I'd had girlfriends!"

"So it was an _open_, as far as I know asexual relationship. Anyway, can you think of one lasting outside relationship either of you'd had?" John rolled his eyes and felt his breath catch in his throat.

"What," he rasped, eyes narrowing, "does it matter anymore, Miss Adler?"

She dropped her eyes, then finished her drink in one, coughing.

"My name's not Adler anymore, you know. I'm now Darla Mercy, of Cabot, Vermont, United States," she announced, a little bitterness to her words. "But I'd like it if you called me Irene while I was here."

"Darla Mercy?" he repeated.

"Shut up."

"No, no," he said, grinning and clearing his throat. "It's…smart. I like it."

"I have a little A-frame cottage, and I'm earning an associate's degree in accounting on the internet, and I work in a _cheese_ factory." She pulled out a brick from her backpack, and tossed it to John.

"_Cabot cheese. Pepper jack_," he read, trying to sound impressed. "Thanks."

"I also have two dogs and a girlfriend named Hannah who works at the grocery store."

"Is she all right with you disappearing for days on end?"

"She's all right with me whipping her senseless once or twice a week, so I should hope so, Watson." They stared at each other, dead-pan, for a moment, then burst into laughter, so violently that the shoebox slipped from John's lap and the yellowing photographs were scattered all over the carpet between them.

John was wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his dressing gown when Irene leaned down and carefully picked up a photograph. She slipped down onto the floor, and clutched the long strip of paper in her poorly bandaged hands.

John joined Irene on the floor, and she held it over for him to see. Martin had made the landslide of photographs into a throne.

It had been taken in a photo booth somewhere. The dark-haired boy, probably ten here, wore a fine school uniform with the top button fastened, and he sat on the lap of a woman with wild raven hair like his. She beamed at him in the top photo, despite how he shrank from her. In the second photo, she was saying something in his ear and he was holding back a smile. The third was blurry—the two were laughing boisterously. And in the fourth, at the bottom, the woman was still laughing, her eyes gleaming wildly directed just above the camera. The little boy had buried his face lovingly in her thick, wool, cabled sweater.

"Had you ever seen him smile like that?" whispered Irene, shaking her head. John frowned.

"No," he coughed, shifting to pick up his cane and hoist himself back up. He stumbled from the ache and leaned on a stack of boxes.

"I wish I'd known him better—"

John snorted.

"You think _you_ do? I've lived with the man for well over a year and he's never even once mentioned that woman there." Irene turned away from him and rose herself, wiping her eyes.

"I think I'll go to bed now," she mumbled, making for Sherlock's room.

"You'll go upstairs," said John. "I've taken the lower bedroom. The stairs…they hurt my leg." She watched him for a moment, then nodded and changed directions. She stopped in front of him, swayed on the spot, and stared down at their feet.

"If you were worried about your security here, I can take care of that. I'm not entirely without defenses."

"You did not even bring a phone, Irene." She allowed a sly smile.

"Let me borrow yours."

"For what?"

"Please?" she said. "I promise I won't be bad."

John sighed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sighed.<p>

He was curled sideways in Mycroft's desk chair, twiddling his box of nicotine patches, of which he was wearing four, and spinning around in circles.

This was a four-patch problem, and he'd put on the patches thinking he'd spend the night right where he was, in his mind palace, gleaning as much information as he could from what little evidence he had.

However, much of his mind palace had be locked off by a massive headache, and he could only replay a few clips over and over in his mind's eye—Moriarty's sardonic expressions in court has he, Sherlock, described him as being a spider at the center of a crime web. Was this text-talk troll he was dealing with yet another spider he'd have to deal with (now left with minimal resources, considering his lack of further existence)? Or was he just a funny little string hanging off the rest of the web—the kind that float onto your face and arms when you're walking under trees, that brush you and confuse you for a moment…then slip away?

The phone rang. Mycroft still had a landline. Old-fashioned smartarse.

It rang a second time. This was getting ridiculous.

Sherlock sprang out of the chair.

"MYCROFT! PHONE!" No response. At this hour, he must have gone out to smoke or binge or fix some late night foreign crisis.

Sherlock hiked up his slippy satin pyjamas and marched over to the phone. It rang again. Jesus.

He checked the caller id.

John H. Watson. Mobile. He shut his eyes. Why would John be calling at 23:27? What could have possibly been going on? Was it an emergency? Was it the texter?

Sherlock considered picking up.

No. He let him leave a message. If it were a crisis, he'd pick up and jump into action.

It rang maddeningly another six times, until finally he heard the cool voice of one of Mycroft's assistants explaining very slowly to whoever was calling who they had just called, and how he didn't pick up, and how to leave a message on a landline. At long last, it beeped.

Not John.

"_Mycroft Holmes,"_ she stated warmly, before she started to speak a mile a minute, her thin voice cunning and confident. The Woman had a lot to fit into thirty seconds. "I just wanted to express my sincere condolences. Your brother was truly a great man, and it saddens me to hear that things took such a bad turn. I take full responsibility for the part I played in Moriarty's little game. Speaking of which! I seem to recall a funny little story about you and a plane full of cadavers! Gosh, if that juicy tidbit were to _anonymously_ fall into the hands of, oh I dunno, _The Sun_? Why, they wouldn't have to look too far to find loads of fantastic evidence, wouldn't they? And I don't think the good people of London would enjoy hearing that their loved ones' remains had been hijacked by the government, though they'd certainly enjoy reading about yet another Holmes scandal. So what do you say you have your cover my tracks while I'm in London, eh? I'm staying in John Watson's guest room." She took a gasp of air. "This is Irene Adler, by the way."

_End of message._

Sherlock chuckled, delighted, and set about hacking the Baker Street CCTV cameras on Mycroft's laptop.

* * *

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